


A Patchwork Heart

by C-chan (1001paperboxes)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Characters Reading Fanfiction, Getting Together, M/M, POV Otabek Altin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27768088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/pseuds/C-chan
Summary: There were hundreds of love songs—thousands, perhaps—that sang about finding that one shard that completed your heart; that made you feel warm and full. Otabek didn't quite believe in them, not when every sort of love given and received gave its own shard, and when every heart had several cracks of love not quite returned. And yet, through Yuri Plisetsky, he understood exactly what they meant.
Relationships: Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26
Collections: Heart Attack Exchange 2020





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Soulstoned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulstoned/gifts).



There are many different types of love. 

That's how Mama explained it when Otabek Altin was very small, with a heart that was still very much his own.

Each type of love was something special, something unique. And even if you loved two people in the same sort of way, your relationship with each would still be unique. 

No two people love in exactly the same way, just in the same way that no two faces or fingerprints are quite the same. And that's why no two heart fragments were as well.

Each person you loved would gain a fragment of your heart, given freely, if unconsciously, by the very act of your loving—whether it be that of a close friend, or a parent, or a crush, or the person you would one day marry.

If your love was returned, their piece would perfectly fill the gap in your heart that your love had left. Otherwise, there would be holes and flaws, cracks in the patchwork: signs of a normal human heart.

* * *

If it was possible to give one's heart to an inanimate object, then a large shard of Otabek's would be embedded in the ice. He wasn't quite sure if that love would be returned, or what the rules behind that would be—the ice was known to be an unforgiving mistress, after all: beautiful but deadly.

But none of that mattered to Otabek when he was four: back then, all he cared about was the sensation of gliding on the smooth surface, padded to the nines and still wont to fall as he practiced skating forward and backward, slowly leaving the safety of pylons and his parents' hands behind so that he could explore the ice on his own.

He remembered the way it felt when he landed his first jump; when he figured out just how to complete a spin.

Looking back, they weren't very good artistically, nor in athletic precision. But the amount of joy he got in those moments were unmatched in almost any other part of his life. And almost a decade and a half later, that joy had hardly faded at all.

Now, there was an air of work and professionalism that went along with it; a sense of having to improve instead of just wanting to go out, have fun, and try new things. But that was normal for any elite athlete. One did not get very far without a genuine love of the sport, but one did not get to perform at a high level without knowing how to balance and temper that love into something a bit more business-like, a back and forth that required constant care and attention to ensure that neither drive or ability faded, and that the love remained strong.

Otabek Altin would not have given even the tiniest sliver of his heart to the barre, unlike most ice skaters he knew. But that just meant that he found other ways to improve. It meant seeking out and partnering with coaches that would appreciate his athleticism and unique musicality, and choreographers who would create routines that relied on technical prowess and something other than the conventional ballet-heavy approach.

So far, it was a work in progress. But Otabek knew that he had what it took to succeed. He had the love, the drive, the dedication and the worth ethic, not to mention raw talent. With the right guidance, he was sure that he would go far.

* * *

When Otabek closed his eyes and meditated, he could see his own heart.

There were many colours making it up; bits and pieces signifying the love of different people over the years breaking up the once-smooth surface. This bit belonged to his mama, this to his papa. This belonged to his younger sister. There was a piece he thought belonged to his third coach, the one who first really believed in is abilities as a potential elite athlete.

There were also several cracks and empty holes. One was from a rare childhood crush, another from a skater he'd admired as a child, who used his own physical athleticism to amaze the audience. But one empty patch felt just a bit bigger than the others where it laid bare and raw, right near the center of his heart. And it belonged to Yuri Plisetsky.

* * *

One day in the junior class had taught Otabek that he didn’t belong with his peers; another in the novice class showed that he was out of place there, too. He was older, and one of the tallest by dint of his age alone; a growth spurt of development ahead of several of the other boys. He was also the least flexible by far, even if he excelled in power. But the novice class, at least, covered fundamentals, and so that was where it was deemed he should stay.

Ballet was Otabek’s least favourite part of the training camp. Spending hours in the studio or at the barre was near-torture; he just wasn’t made to lift and bend that way, and he could never find the right angle for anything. Still, seeing the other boys’ determination gave him drive. That, he could relate to. That mimicked his own, even if it looked different on each of them. 

It wasn’t quite camaraderie; not in the way it seemed in the books he read, when shards were spread freely. But it was enough to keep him going, even if it meant pushing through hour after hour of training that didn’t quite make sense for his body.

* * *

The boy had eyes like a soldier.

That wasn't the first thing that Otabek noticed, but it was certainly the most striking detail about Yuri Plisetsky in that novice ballet class.

The boy was also the best at everything, despite being one of the youngest and despite being new, as witnessed by the fact that half the boys in the camp knew each other by name, but few knew Yuri’s just as few knew his.

He had no real reason to confront the boy, nor did he have time. Their days were packed with group practice on the ice and in the ballet studio, with a smattering of private coaching and instruction here and there.

Yuri kept to himself, and largely, so did Otabek. 

Yuri seemed to keep to himself as a matter of course, further practicing in his downtime, and usually outright ignoring anyone who came too close.

Otabek kept to himself for other reasons. He was always shy, after all, and while his Russian was good, he was well-accustomed to being teased for his accent and for not knowing certain words or certain bits of pop culture that weren’t as popular in Almaty. The boys in his dorm weren't too bad about it; they were a little older, juniors like him, since he'd been placed there before camp started. That meant that they only saw Otabek outside of classes and it was time to eat, or sleep, or relish whatever bits of free time they were allowed. But that also meant he was isolated from them, and that they looked down on him a bit, though they mainly tried not to be obvious about it. More, there was a sense of camaraderie between them that Otabek lacked, as if their time spent together had embedded tiny shards like in the books. Perhaps he’d have given and gotten them too, if he'd been up to the level of artistic grace that the Russian coaches insisted upon.

Still, Otabek didn’t mind being alone. It gave him time to read the novels he'd packed from home, and play a bit on his DS, and sit and meditate in the times when the novice class was excused but the juniors still had one more hour of rink time.

It was during one of those meditations, examining the heart he knew so well, that he noticed another piece gone. 

To Yuri, he knew.

Even if the boy was standoffish and not at all friendly, there was something about him that had caught Otabek's attention and had made him unforgettable.

Maybe it was the eyes. Maybe it was the determination that went with them. Maybe it was the spark that came watching Yuri on the ice; so young and yet already so expressive; flitting his way across the rink like a sprite, performing spins while contorting his body as if he had no spine, and practicing jumps that his coaches had forbidden for being too advanced when they had their backs turned.

Part of him wanted to approach the younger skater and to become friends. But the time, he knew, wasn’t right. There wasn’t the time to build the rapport around classes, especially being in separate dorms such as they were. 

Besides, when they did become friends, Otabek wanted to do it as Yuri’s equal. Right now, their skill level was too different. Even if Yuri was still that young, Otabek was sure that he'd be brushed aside as inferior.

At the moment, quite honestly, he was.

But that was one more reason to practice. To learn. To find a route to success on the ice that truly suited him.

Clearly, the Russian style of ballet was not the right way forward. But there were other rinks, and other countries; other styles of teaching and learning, and ways to go about expressing himself on the ice.

For now, he would do his best, and take whatever lessons he could learn from this camp to heart. And then, when he got home, he'd talk to his parents and coach about maybe finding a new way forward. Even if that meant finding a new place to live and work and train.

* * *

Not all love was returned. Mama talked of the ways in which most hearts were incomplete; bits of the soft interior made vulnerable by love that was given freely to those who didn’t know, or who couldn’t give it back if they tried.

This was normal, this was good. Some people said that this is how one learned empathy and to read others; it was harder to relate with a heart kept inside a fully-fitted shell. However, it also left gaps where hurt could run extra deep, especially when it was inflicted by those who held the bits of heart that had been so freely given away.

Some said it was too unbearable; there were plenty of songs of a shattered heart laid naked, just as there were songs of lovers making one's heart perfectly whole. Otabek didn't quite believe either. After all, what was the likelihood of being completely unloved? Or having every single piece of love ever given be requited?

Still, there was nothing unusual about mourning the bits of heart laid vulnerable, and praying that one day, perhaps, the love would be returned.

* * *

It was Otabek’s sister who introduced him to fanfiction.

Not that he'd ever admit to reading it, of course. At least, not the ones about other skaters. But nonetheless; there it was. Fiction about Victor Nikiforov meeting Makkachin for the first time; about Cao Bin and Christophe Giacometti sharing lonely nights together in the Winter Olympic villas. There was even a story or two about him, though Otabek found it too odd a concept to open them.

The ones about Yuri, though, were intriguing. And also unsurprising, knowing the increasing voraciousness of Yuri's Angels as the boy made a name for himself at the junior level. Several stories revolved around Yuri returning a fan's feelings and becoming a dedicated boyfriend and husband; of hearts painted matching colours, no-longer piecemeal at all, and a life of happily ever afters. One involved meeting over matching cat headbands, another with a chance encounter at a coffee shop. In several, Yuri was injured, and a girl would nurse him back to health. And in about half of those, the girl would then get injured, and Yuri would return everything, gesture for gesture, whether altruistically, out of love, or because he hated the idea of being in debt. 

The fantasies were all well and good, but something always seemed off. Something didn't quite match up to the boy he knew. There were no soldier's eyes to be found; only cross brashness making way for tender touches. And without that sense of desperate determination, there was no true hope of ever finding that shard of his heart.

Of course, it was always possible that there would be no hope for Otabek either, but he could still hope and dream, and do his best to make himself someone that Yuri would be proud of, and that he could be proud of as well.

After all, Yuri’s love was never a guarantee. And so long as he was proud of himself at the end of the day, any further adoration was a bonus.

* * *

And what of the extra bits?

Otabek had his own theories about that. He could feel them, sometimes. The love of his fans surrounded his heart like the rings of Saturn, or like the halos on the saints in the cathedrals he toured during his downtime at international competitions.

They protected in their own way, creating a forcefield that could stop some of the worst of the bad thoughts from getting through to his heart. 

It was hard to imagine all of the people that the halo represented; each shard from someone else who'd fallen a little bit in love, each hoping that they'd find it returned with one of his own. But Otabek didn't know most of their faces; would hardly know them on the street, if not for the signs and buttons and cheers, the occasional ask for an autograph, giving of a gift, or offer of a free beverage. He did what he could in those moments, solemnly signing whatever was given to him, accepting trinkets when offered, and attempting to buy or do something for the fans in return, when he could.

After all, even if Otabek didn't have the connection needed to return the love, or a heart big enough for such to even be possible for every shard given to him, he could at least manage to be kind.

* * *

Skating wasn’t the only love of Otabek’s life; there was music as well. It was fun, figuring out how to merge songs together to tell a story, or make people dance, or get people to feel so hard that there was nothing left but to pulse in time with their hearts on the dance floor.

It helped for skating too, of course. Even if Otabek didn’t have the skills to do ballet, the extra sense of musicality lent its own benefits in creating routines that could still produce high artistic scores, even if he was creating and performing them in nontraditional ways. Of course, he was still much less of an expert at such a feat than Leo, who seemed to thrive off of music, and who used various dance styles in his skating to match whatever vibe his new favourite song was giving off.

Training with Leo had been a good experience for learning and growth; Leo’s joy on the ice was almost palpable, and although they’d never really grown close, and gave each other only the tiniest fleck of a shard, sharing music back and forth had been a good benefit of their time together. And seeing how Leo could interpret each new song, and bring it to life in different and unique ways had inspired Otabek to do the same, even if not quite as smoothly as his colleague and competitor.

But where Otabek really shone was behind a DJ table. There, too, he could see the way that music affected people; the way that people would move to the beat, and how the mood could change drastically as the tempo and dynamics picked up or dropped down. There, too, laid inspiration. Of course, he couldn’t just pulse like someone in a packed crowd when on the ice, but he could bring that same raw, emotional feel to his performances.

Sometimes, he swore he could see the cracks in people’s hearts pouring out to the sound of his music. It reminded him, oddly enough, of Victor Nikiforov’s last free skate; the one that Katsuki Yuuri had performed his own version of.

There were many ways to be artistic on the ice, after all. And Otabek was finding ways to shine with his own abilities. If he could bring a bit of that vulnerability to the ice in his own way… find how to expose just a few of the cracks in his heart, then maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to improve his artistic scores high enough to boost himself to podium-level.

* * *

Otabek had come in eighth place in the Grand Prix the year before Yuri made his senior debut, and Victor Nikiforov announced his short-lived hiatus from the skating world. That meant that he hadn't quite qualified for the Grand Prix Finals, and thus had missed out on all of the antics of the infamous afterparty.

Still, the pictures were enough. And if one knew where to look, there were several photos to be found.

Most weren't posted widely, and for good reason: Katsuki Yuuri was far more drunk than anyone should be in front of sponsors, but still managed to steal the room as he beat Yuri in a dance-off, led Victor in what looked oddly like a passo doble, and apparently out-pole-danced Christophe Giacometti. (Otabek wasn’t aware that such a feat was even possible. And, according to Chris, no-one else had been either.) 

It was a chaotic nightmare, if ever a Grand Prix Final afterparty deserved that title.

And yet… there was something magical about it.

Otabek wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen people giving bits of their hearts before. The process was involuntary, after all; not something that anyone set out to do. It simply followed the way that love flowed. (Of course, some argued that one could make oneself love another, but that was a philosophical discussion rather apart from Otabek’s own personal comfort level.) And yet, in the candid snapshots, it was surprisingly easy to find moment after moment of Yuuri capturing hearts.

There was the moment in which Victor was staring, for once looking completely off his game, at Yuuri as he approached with a tie on his head to say who-knows-what.

There was the moment when Yuri, still looking pissed as hell for even being challenged to a dance-off, looked at Yuuri wide-eyed with something that was not quite a glare.

There was the way that Chris smirked as champagne flowed freely from Yuuri’s hands, bottle popped while horizontal against the poll.

There were other moments too, in the background; it seemed quite a few people had found some sort of fascination with Katsuki Yuuri that day, and with it, lost a shard of their heart.

It was a shame that Yuuri had disappeared from the skating world so soon after. Otabek wasn’t quite sure what had happened; most of the forums had posited some sort of injury, but nothing had ever been released announcing such, making the sudden hiatus a rather large mystery.

Otabek just hoped that the Japanese skater realized how many hearts he held within him as he faded into that relative obscurity.

* * *

It was hard to believe that Otabek had made it from eighth at the beginning of the season to _third_ at the end. Standing on the podium at the World Finals felt like nothing short of a miracle.

There he was, beside Victor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti, in front of the lights and sights and sounds of the podium on an international scale.

In some ways, it was far too much. In other ways, it almost felt like not enough. And in others, it almost felt unreal. The press interview after was hard—a mix of emotions sweeping over him that kept making him trip over his tongue. He kept his answers short whenever possible, avoiding most of the limelight as Victor and Chris gave their usual long-winded speeches and flirted with the cameras, the press, and each other.

It wasn’t all new, exactly. He’d stood on many podiums before in his pursuit of becoming a world-class skater. But still, apparently it would take some getting used to this new sort of limelight.

Still, knowing that he would enter the next season as the second-ranked skater in the world…

Maybe that would be enough to finally catch those soldier’s eyes, and make him seem worthy.

* * *

Yuri Plisetsky had a severe case of tunnel vision.

Not in the literal sense; at least as far as Otabek knew, Yuri's sight was perfect. Though, being an ice skater, he'd be unsurprised to find the Russian wearing glasses off the ice, or, even more likely, stubbornly choosing contacts or getting laser surgery rather than accepting a life with prescription eyewear. Especially since Katsuki Yuuri so obviously _did_ wear glasses, and, perhaps due to their shared name, Yuri Plisetsky wanted more than anything to differentiate himself from the Japanese skater.

No, Yuri's tunnel vision was more metaphorical. He was very bad at noticing anyone or anything around him unless it was directly related to his goals.

Although he was crass and rude, Otabek never seemed to get the sense that any of it was intentional. Or rather, it was hard to tell if that was a shell he'd built up, or just simply the way he was. But even if Yuri could choose kinder actions, and rarely did, none of his actions were really cruel either; more "tsun-tsun" as the Japanese pair skaters he'd once trained with once put it.

The forgetfulness and tunnel vision likewise seemed an innate part of Yuri. Otabek had always been decent at names, but his sister was constantly forgetting her classmates from year to year. (She'd admitted once that she'd started asking her teachers for class lists so she at least had options to choose from as she tried to match the faces to names.) And Yuri never had been one for socializing. The boy was famous for not knowing the names of his competition, often forgetting even their faces from one year to the next. Most of his competition tried to be friendly with one another and plan parties and get-togethers in their precious limited free-time, and Yuri would turn each of them down time and time again, or just never bother to respond to the invitations in the first place, as if they’d never arrived at all.

His eyes were always that of a soldier, his mind always on what came next, how he could push himself further and surpass his competition; exploring how he could become the best.

In that way, he wasn't different from Otabek, or most other skaters for that matter. The difference was that, for Yuri, victory in itself was the goal. His interest in winning and being the best wasn’t driven by a love of music or ballet, but simply of being on the ice and outshining everyone else upon it.

With that sort of drive behind him, very few others stood a chance.

So, no. Otabek was not surprised that Yuri Plisetsky would forget a person like him, as of their first meeting. He simply wasn't of Yuri's calibre. And that was a statement of fact, not at all a boast for Yuri, or a put-down for him. It would take training and pushing himself harder than he ever had to make himself as high-level a competitor as Yuri himself, to fit within that tunnel vision and earn himself a chance at friendship when next they could compete at the same level.

Perhaps it was a selfish goal, but he could one he could aim for. If he failed, he'd still have done his best on the ice, and have hopefully made his country proud. And if he won, well, who knew what fortune that would bring.

* * *

The Grand Prix was always an adventure; halfway between predictability and surprises. It was the first chance to gauge that year’s competition, see everyone’s routines in action, and get a sense of who the front runners would be.

There wasn’t _much_ movement from year to year—thus the inherent predictability—but there always was someone new moving up from Juniors, or retiring, or injuring themselves during Skate America or the Rostledom Cup that made for some sort of excitement and turned everything around. Or a dark horse would rise from the ranks; perhaps shining with the aid of a new coach, or having finally become familiar enough with the judges for better artistic scores to finally kick in.

Otabek wasn’t sure which one of those it was for him that had caused his rise in status over the past year; going from near the top of the second string (good enough to compete year after year, but forgettable and not podium-consideration level) to taking the bronze in World’s. After all, he’d finally managed to return to Kazakhstan with a new coach, after literally training around the world for his entire junior career. He’d found programs that mixed the musicality he appreciated with a strong sense of athleticism, creating a program that stood out from the routines of more popular skaters, and suited his own abilities far better. The time spent away from ballet had been used to increase his strength; make sure that his jumps and spins were cleaner and more consistent than almost anyone’s, and that his jump height was unparalleled. Perhaps he’d never be a Nikiforov, but he didn’t need to be. He was himself. And, well, his rise over the season could also speak to the judges being comfortable with him; but he’d be competing in different countries this year. He even managed to win the NHK Trophy, despite having not competed in front of any of their judges at a senior level before, and remembering only a few of them from Junior-level competitions.

This year’s programs were new, too; or rather, he kept the same exhibition skate, a proper EDM routine based around a mix that he’d put together himself—a mix that was little too radical for use as a traditional program, but he was able to put in a few more bonus acrobatics because of it. (It was more fun than his other programs, even if he still wasn’t really one to smile on the ice.) But the ones gaining him points, and allowing for the chance to show off that EDM routine? Those had been created and perfected over the summer, after hours and hours of hard work on and off the ice.

So any success this year was either due to the new coach and change of location, or else an increase in his own ability.

With any luck, he’d continue to be the dark horse, and take the Grand Prix Finals by storm.

* * *

Fanfiction, it turned out, wasn’t the only thing that Otabek Altin had gotten from his sister.

While he hadn’t openly admitted the fact to anyone in the skating world, and hopefully never would, she had definitely bought him a Yuri’s Angels official membership as a gag gift a few years back, and had kept it up ever since.

That meant that he had access to exclusive photos, quarterly mail-outs of Official Unofficial Yurochka Gear, and access to the Yuri’s Angels private servers.

That was, in fact, one of the reasons why he knew fans would be even more on the lookout than normal for their favourite skating idol on the day before the men took to the ice in the Grand Prix Finals. After all, bringing Yurochka to the Yuri's Angel's meet-up would be legendary, and the girl (or boy, but those tended to be few and far between) who managed such a feat would be sure to go down in Angel History. And even if that proved impossible, even just getting a photo with him would be enough for several, and would raise their status within the Angel community significantly.

But was it worth it for Yuri's ire? For that much more surety that the shard they gave Yuri would never be returned? Perhaps they didn't see it that way, in the same way that they chose to believe the fics in which Yuri could settle into sweet love with a fan.

Otabek was less than certain. Moreso, he knew that it could badly affect Yuri's performance; his temper causing issues at the least, and rabid fans accidentally causing physical damage at worst.

Plus, he'd been meaning to meet up with Yuri again at some point, to try and reforge that connection, and see if he'd done enough to prove himself worthy of Yuri's time, and to cross that bar into someone memorable.

At worst, the answer would be no, and Otabek could go on with his life, knowing that one piece of his heart that would remain empty or ill-filled by another shard as he sought out other people whose love of the ice and music could match his own; or perhaps who didn't share those at all, but who still understood and respected him in his own right.

And at best, well… this Grand Prix final was meant to be the end of a chapter, but also the beginning of the season. Perhaps, in the same way, it could provide an end and a beginning in their relationship.

And so, he hopped upon his motorcycle, using both the hints that Angels had posted, and his knowledge of Yuri to track him down quicker than anyone with just one or the other could have managed. And, with Yuri's hands gripping tight around his waist, a spare helmet now strapped upon his head, Otabek drove them both away.

* * *

"What, really? We knew each other?" Yuri asked, eyes going wide. "I don't remember any of that."

Otabek shrugged. He hadn't expected Yuri to. 

He told Yuri as much, point blank, and Yuri’s cheeks tinged pink, all but confirming everything that Otabek had ever thought about him.

And not for the first time, Otabek wondered what on earth Yuri’s heart looked like, and how thick the shell of unrequited shard was surrounding a potentially still surprisingly monochromatic heart.

But to that end, Otabek looked out over Barcelona, took a deep breath in and out, and then turned to face Yuri Plisetsky once more, extending a hand for the second time that day.

“So, are we friends or not?”

The next thing he knew, Yuri Plisetsky’s hand was in his, and his heart felt so pleasantly warm, it might have been swapped out for the sun.

A new shard was fit squarely in place. And suddenly, Otabek understood what a thousand love songs were talking about.


	2. After

There were hundreds of love songs—thousands, perhaps—that sang about finding that one shard that completed your heart; that made you feel warm and full.

Otabek had never understood them until Yuri Plisetsky had made it possible.

It still wasn’t accurate; there would always be gaps and cracks; old crushes, long-lost relatives, love that wasn’t of quite the same type that felt more jury rigged than perfectly fitting, but was still better than no fill at all. 

And yet, for all of that, there was something about finding a long-sought-for piece, having that love returned, that felt different, that felt special. Or perhaps it was just because it was Yuri’s, and that made it special for _him_.

Otabek didn’t have enough knowledge, or experience, to know which one it was, or if, perhaps, it was infatuation burning anew.

All he knew for certain was, looking at Yuri’s face and seeing both the excitement as he took Otabek’s hand in his own and confirmed their friendship, and the shock and warmth of his heart shard finding its way home… whatever the feeling was, it was mutual.

* * *

Otabek didn’t end up winning the Grand Prix Final. For that matter, he didn’t even get in the podium, though he still surpassed Chris for the first time as he landed himself in fourth. 

Social media was already decrying JJflation by the time the Russian national anthem was playing. Otabek just saw it as one more reason to work on his free skate; the longer program afforded too much time for just athletics, meaning he needed to come up with new ways to show off his skills if he wanted a chance to maintain his spot near the top. Yuri, however, seemed to agree with the fans, if his demeanour after the competition was any indication. Although there had been an immediate minute of elation after finishing his free skate, as he and his coaches realized that he won, it seemed that all he wanted to do after the medal ceremony ended was rant about the bullshit that allowed for the other Yuuri to get second and to get JJ on the podium at all after a horrible showing in both programs.

“You deserved bronze at least,” Yuri insisted. “Probably silver. Pigs don’t deserve medals.”

Perhaps Otabek didn’t quite agree, but the underlying message was clear. Otabek Altin had finally become visible in Yuri’s eyes. And what was more, Yuri truly cared.

A rare smile crossed Otabek’s face, causing Yuri to stop, his eyes wide as he took in the gesture.

Yeah, those shards definitely fit perfectly.

* * *

Fourth place wasn’t high enough to be automatically invited to participate in the gala, and he wasn’t a fan favourite like Chris or Phichit, so Otabek wasn’t surprised when he wasn’t on the gala’s short list.

This was actually a relief for two reasons.

First, it meant he had a rare extra off-day to do as he pleased. And second, Yuri Plisetsky apparently wanted to create a cool new routine out of nowhere; apparently wanting to show off after finding out about Otabek’s DJ-ing and feeling a little sick and tired of being a perfect ballerina on the ice.

It was a little surprising, and even unprecedented, changing to a new routine at such the last minute, but if anyone could pull it off, it would be Yuri. (Or Victor Nikiforov, but the world was still reeling from his sudden announcement of returning to the world of competition; Otabek was not at all envious of the amount of work he’d need to do to be ready for the Russian nationals some few weeks later.)

Yuri had loved the feeling of a piece that Otabek had played the night before, saying that it was rock and rebellious and a little torn up, perfect for the way he was feeling inside. And so, he decided, he was going to skate to it. And with Otabek’s help, they figured out the details. His outfit wouldn’t really be made for the ice, but that was far less important in the exhibition. The lighting, well, there was a bit of leeway there, and Otabek had a few ideas that he was able to contribute and chart.

And then, all that was left was to choreograph the whole damn thing.

It was Yuri’s idea for Otabek to have an active part in it, even if it was just standing at the side of the rink.

“You should’ve been on the ice yourself,” he insisted, “and I am _not_ going to copy that pig and turn my number into a sappy duet.”

But this allowed a nice middle ground, according to Yuri. Otabek had to admit, he never thought he’d be literally biting someone’s gloves off mid-routine, but it was _hot_. And for Yuri? Yeah. He was more than willing.

Putting the act together was a mix of improvisation and passing around ideas; Yuri skating on an open rink after hours, and Otabek occasionally gliding on to show off an idea or two, or offer suggestions on areas that could be improved.

It was a far later night than it should have been, given that they’d both competed mere hours before. But by the time 2am rolled around, they had a _fantastic_ routine prepared.

It was nothing like anything Yuri had ever skated before. His coaches were probably going to be shocked.

And privately, Otabek was excited to see how Yuri would break his fairy mold, and find a new way to take the world by storm.

* * *

It almost felt like there was a hole in Otabek’s heart, when he returned home.

Not in the usual way; no, he was used to the way that his cracks and raw patches felt; this felt like a different sort of pain, a different sort of absence, all the way down to his core.

It reminded him of the first time he left home to study in Russia, living in the dorms a country and three time zones away from his family. He could feel the shards correlating to his family aching for weeks, especially at night when he had time to focus on them and reflect on his heart. The pain subsided eventually, settling into a low but constant throb, occasionally strengthening at odd occasions, especially birthdays and holidays, but sometimes out of the blue when he was remembering something that one of them had done, or when they were doing the same.

This pain was sharper, more precise. And it was easy to assume where the pain was coming from.

If anything, it was more surprising that there hadn’t been more pain from his other shards. There was the odd twinge here and there, perhaps from an old coach reliving a fond memory as they watched a young skater who was similarly good at athletics and horrible at ballet, or one of his friends looking through old photo galleries and reminiscing.

So why was this one so sharp?

His mother smiled when he explained the phenomenon to her over the weekly family video chat, and called it deep love.

“I felt the same when I was apart from your father, especially when we were young,” she explained. “It changed, somewhat, after we’d been married for a few years, but it’s still quite strong.”

It had taken Otabek a while to reflect on that advice, though he’d thanked her for it immediately after it was given.

None of it was actually surprising. The fact that it was love… every shard was love. And given the obsession it had given Otabek over years, the way he found himself returning to Yuri’s place in his heart over and over again, even while it was still a raw patch… it wasn’t hard to imagine that the love was meant to be deep.

Thinking back on the way that Yuri had responded to everything during the Grand Prix, and the way he’d pushed to be with Otabek as often as possible, even attempting to make his way into more than one club to find him despite being underage, he had to assume that there was at least some of the same feelings within Yuri as well.

* * *

Most people's hearts were already patchwork by the time they could start remembering at all: love of their parents, their siblings, grandparents and close family friends all fitting perfectly in the tiny baby heart, filling their older relations with a renewed sense of love that many first-time parents and grandparents admitted they never knew was possible.

Not everyone was so lucky of course, but most had someone. One of Otabek's favourite stories as a young child was of an orphan boy who's only soul shard was shared with his cat. It was a sad story, but full of hope as the boy and cat built a happy life out of the scraps that they could get their hands on, and danced their way to a life that was rich in its own way. And in time, they built up a relationship just as rich as any family's.

Maybe, then, it was the quality of the match that was important, more than the quantity. But most hearts were more fragmented than that; a kaleidoscope of colour with cracks that ran deep, exposing the bits and pieces where pieces didn't exactly fit, and love was still waiting to be returned.

* * *

Yuri, as it turned out, was not as used to video chats as he was. Twitch streams were certainly within his wheelhouse, and SMS was definitely a thing, but apparently Yuri’s grandfather was far more used to telephones than computers. And, seeing that he was the only family member that Yuri was deeply attached to, and his friend group wasn’t exactly the most robust, he’d never had much of a reason to get into a lot of video chats.

So, it took a bit of time to set up their first appointment. Thankfully, Yuri was fairly willing to just use whatever program Otabek liked best, so it just took minimally guiding him through setup via chat messenger (a lot less remote tech support than he’d have to give his parents when they bought a new computer, that was for sure) and making sure that the minimally used microphone and camera were set to good working levels.

It was _good_ to see Yuri again. The sight of Yuri made Otabek’s heart ache in all the best ways. And, judging by the look on Yuri's face, the feeling was probably mutual.

They talked about a lot of things.

About life, and how Potya had destroyed yet another pair of earphones the day Yuri had returned back home with Lilia. He was considering switching to air pods, both to avoid her playing with the cords anymore, and because hiding them under his hair could make for very easy stealth not-paying attention. He also worried that Potya would find a way to swallow one, or hide them in one or more of the secret stashes that he knew the cat was keeping somewhere, due to the way that small trinkets that she played with tended to disappear.

About Otabear, and how that came to be. Otabek showed off some of his collection of costumes for the bear, who had become his signature companion and good luck charm, and who had matching costumes for every outfit he did, including custom headphones for his current exhibition piece.

About skating, and what sort of techniques Otabek used to get his jumps so high. It wasn’t anything too special; just a lot of leg training. Otabek thought that Yuri's ability to do perfect jumps with both hands raised was just as impressive; he would have to work and see if he could make that technique work for him to raise his own jump scores without looking too much like he was flailing all over the place.

About the upcoming season, and what they expected at their national competitions. Yuri said he was frustrated that Victor was coming back into an arena that was supposed to be built for him now, but it was easy to see through the words. The excitement of getting to compete head-on with the reigning world champion was palpable even through Yuri's typical angry rant.

About home life, and what it was like living in dorms and in other people's houses, away from family. Yuri had been doing it from a younger age than Otabek, though Otabek had been much farther from home. It was interesting to compare their experiences; the way that Yuri had been training in the shadow of Victor Nikiforov, always steady with the same coach and the same experience (at least until Lilia came along) while Otabek had been to many places and picked up many skills, creating a more patchwork sort of history that mirrored the look of his heart.

About family; and this was the one time that Yuri let his guard down completely, gushing enthusiastically about his grandfather, and for once, truly looking his relatively young age. Otabek explained about his own family too; his mother and father and sister, and the ways that they'd managed to bond and stay close despite his living half a world away for many years. Yuri explained about visits with his grandfather, and how his best childhood memories involved his grandfather taking him down to skate on a frozen lake, and cooking the absolute best pirozhki in the world.

About their hearts, and what they looked like, and how they felt. Otabek explained about the pain he’d felt since the Grand Prix Finals, and the balm that he felt when they talked, during which, Yuri was uncharacteristically quiet. For a moment, he thought that he'd said something wrong, or explained it badly, but then Yuri had sniffed, and let out a string of curses as he jumped off his bed to find a damn kleenex to dry his tears and clean himself up.

* * *

What did Yuri Plisetsky’s heart look like?

The question wasn’t new; it was one that Otabek had considered time and time again over the years.

Yuri Plisetsky didn’t have many friends, but was admired the world over. Otabek wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen any family of Yuri’s at competitions, except perhaps one old man who he now assumed was Yuri’s much-beloved grandfather.

Whether it was that Yuri was a private person, or that his heart was still largely unblemished, or cracked and raw, was yet to be seen. All Otabek knew was that it was surrounded in shards so thick as to act as armour, if even a third of Yuri’s Angels’ several thousand-strong membership had given a piece of their heart to him.

Yuri’s heart was likely an anomaly, something a little different than his own, and that of most people he knew.

It was a heart that Otabek would cherish, now that he’d been given the chance.

* * *

Yuri called him to show off his jumps, yelling at Mina Babicheva to hold the phone steady as he showed just how much height he could put on a triple loop. Otabek gave some pointers which Mila rightfully debated, pointing out how their body types and different preferred skates definitely lent themselves to different techniques. Yuri just stuck out his tongue and tried the suggestions anyway, though as Mila suspected, not all of them worked for Yuri personally.

Otabek called Yuri to show off a new companion for Otabear that his sister had given him; a white, fluffy, and slightly anthropomorphized plush kitten wearing an outfit suspiciously similar to Yuri's Agape costume. Yuri grinned, and demanded that he get one too.

Yuri called, inviting Otabek to his grandfather's house for a week of downtime, and Otabek found himself opening a new window to look at flight costs, even as they continued chatting long into the night.

* * *

There was something about being around Yuri that just felt right. Seeing his face was good, and hearing his voice was amazing, but being able to touch Yuri; to know that the real person was _right there_? That felt too wonderful for words.

And yes, Otabek could understand how that could fade over time, as one became accustomed to a daily life together, and the honeymoon period came to an end. But a week wasn't long enough for that to truly come to pass, and so Otabek reminded himself to take in every moment, to appreciate every good feeling that he felt in his heart, so that it could sustain him until the next time that such a feat was possible.

There was something amazing about seeing Yuri at home: almost a transformation that took place, turning the warrior fairy prince into a little child once again as he stuffed his face with his grandfather's homemade food and explained about every last thing in the cottage with a level of excitement that seemed reserved for his grandfather and his grandfather alone.

There was little doubt that his grandfather's heart was largely represented in Yuri's, and Otabek wondered what he, himself, would have been like if he'd only really had one family member to look up to in the good times, and to miss when apart.

Yuri took Otabek skating on the frozen pond from his childhood, and to the local stores; swapping between English and Russian with ease, along with Otabek, who was decently fluent in both, though every now and again some term would slip him by in one language or the other, making him frown as he tried to translate it from Khazhak.

Otabek could see why Yuri was so in love with his grandfather. The man was kind, if perhaps a little gruff, but that just meant he could see where Yuri got it from. Otabek could see Yuri mellowing out into a person like him with time, and wondered if Yuri imagined the same thing. 

If Yuri could learn to cook like his grandfather, then there would be no doubt that he would be one of the most sought-after bachelors in the skating world, even if he were to suffer a career-ending injury the very next day. The food was as good as Yuri had suggested. Or, well, almost—Otabek had to avoid the katsudon pirozhki on principle, which made Nikolai laugh and promise to keep relatively halal—or at least kosher—for the remainder of the week. If it wasn't the best food he'd ever eaten, it certainly ranked high; often simple, but flavourful and cooked to mastery.

And then, on Wednesday, Nicholai had invited them to make pierogi together. It was fun getting an assembly line going, everyone working together to roll, cut, fill, and close the pierogi. Otabek had been tasked with filling; the job being probably the least intensive of the three, leaving both Plisetskies to work their mastery over rolling the dough and cutting out seemingly endless circles (Nicholai) and shaping the filled circles into proper dumplings (Yuri). It was fun listening to the banter of the two over whatever instrumental music mix that Grandfather Plisetsky had decided to turn on in the background. Apparently, Yuri had taken on the role of shaping after his grandfather's arthritis had begun to worsen; giving the man a break from the finest of motor tasks in the kitchen when he could. Otabek had noticed the same on other days as well, with Yuri insisting on slipping into the kitchen to act as sous-chef every now and again, cutting up vegetables, stirring pots, and taking on fiddly tasks whenever his grandfather directed.

The two talked about old times as they cooked, about how Yuri had whined and complained until he'd finally been allowed to help, even if it was just placing the filling like they'd relegated Otabek to, and eventually moving up to rolling the dough, and, after several years observing his grandfather's technique, finally being allowed to be the one to shape the pierogi into their final form.

That wasn't quite true, his Grandfather reminded—before that, Yuri had attempted the entire process by himself one day when he was about nine; underestimating the hours and hours it would take to get through everything on his own. However, he'd still managed to not burn himself, and to make a batch of pierogi that were at least passable, even if he did also turn the kitchen into a disaster along the way. (They'd apparently finished the creation together, and then Yuri had been made to wash all the dishes the next day, after he'd had an adequate break from being on his feet for the hours that he'd been boiling and mashing and rolling and filling.)

By the time they were done, the three had managed to make a few hundred pierogi. Most were placed into freezer bags raw and uncooked, ready to be frozen and thawed over time as they were needed, allowing for a quick and easy meal. He'd send a few bags worth back with Yuri as well, so he could share them with Lilia on days when that level of carbohydrate could be allowed as part of Yuri's strict diet skating diet.

Otabek wouldn't take any on his flight, though Yuri suggested it—not really wanting to figure out how to pack frozen food for international travel—but enjoyed the taste of them that night regardless. Boiled and tossed in a mix of oil, garlic and onion, they paired wonderfully with sour cream; the slightly salty mix of potato and cream contrasting perfectly with the caramelized onion’s sweetness.

And then, there was dishes. Otabek had offered to wash most nights. Washing the dishes felt like an easy price to pay, or way to give thanks, for eating such good food, and he was glad to do it. Plus, it was something he could do that would help without interfering with the way the household worked, with Yuri and his grandfather having cooking down to an almost science. The other two could put things away; Yuri knew the kitchen almost like the back of his hand, and Nicholai knew it even better, but Otabek didn’t need to as he scrubbed a bit of burnt-on onion here, and the last remnants of dried borscht there.

Already, it was easy to imagine this being daily life; cleaning while Yuri cooked, whether just for them or for family.

He mentioned that to Yuri that night, and while he expected some sort of grumpy comment in return, or at least a “tch,” he instead was meant with silence, a pregnant pause, before Yuri answered.

“Yeah. I think I’d like that, too.”

* * *

The days at the Plisetsky home were full of cooking and cleaning; of sightseeing around the small town on the outskirts of Moscow, and sharing stories of family and growing up as they basked in the beautiful nature around them.

At night, they'd have large mugs of tea, spiced and sweetened, and served from an old-fashioned samovar, and then would sit beside each other by the fire, watching whatever program his Grandfather had turned on his small, out-of-date TV.

Yuri reached for his hand once, a few nights in, and they'd begun snuggling with no further words exchanged. Perhaps they would have to talk about it later, but there seemed no need to in the heat of the moment; if his grandfather minded, he didn't say.

And, as Otabek had always expected it would, the week went by too fast.

He could have stayed a month. A year. Forever. But the world of high-caliber skating waits for no individual, and while the occasional break was good for the mind, even that one week off would take some intense training to recondition after. And so, far too soon, Nicholai Plisetsky packed both their things up in his old, worn-out automobile, and drove them back to St. Petersburg.

They dropped Yuri’s things off at Lilia’s first, and Otabek helped bring Yuri’s rolling suitcase in while Nicholai gave her two bags of frozen pierogi, another two that looked like cubes of frozen boiled spinach with bits of garlic mixed in, and one that looked surprisingly as though it was full of Turkish Delight.

Lilia thanked him, they exchanged a few words, and then it was time for one last meal together before the trip to the airport.

There was something less-than-satisfying about the last meal of this trip not being Nicholai Plisetsky’s food. Yuri seemed to think so too, pointing out how his grandfather would have made everything differently, from the cabbage rolls to the delicate pink cakes that they ate for dessert. Nicholai seemed to take all of this in stride, sometimes nodding along, or correcting Yuri and pointing out techniques that were used in this version that were masterfully done, whether or not it was the way that he would have contracted the dish personally.

And even that was over too soon, and it was time to go to the airport.

Standing near security, it was hard to find the strength of will to go through.

Of course, Yuri grabbing his arm like a lifeline wasn’t exactly helping either.

“We need to do this again,” Yuri stated, his voice almost shaking as he maintained his death grip on Otabek’s arm.

“Of course,” Otabek replied. “My place next time?”

Yuri considered that a moment. “We’ll talk. But I can’t spend months without seeing you again. It _hurts_ too much. I hate it.”

And, _oh_ , Otabek understood that far too well.

There was no need for further words as he pulled Yuri into a hug so tight, there was hardly room for air.

(Who needed air, after all, when you were about to leave what felt like your source of oxygen?)

“Soon,” he repeated, into Yuri’s hair. “I promise.”

Yuri nodded, then looked up, no longer quite concealing the tears at the corner of his eyes. “It fucking sucks that you’re in four continents. Means I’ve gotta wait for Worlds to compete against you again And we’ll have to deal with those disgusting lovebirds when we do….”

Otabek gave a low chuckle at that.

“Would we also qualify for that term?”

Yuri gave him a glare through his tears. “No. We are awesome. They’re just so saccharine there’s no escape.”

Otabek nodded. “Fair.”

Yuri pressed a finger against Otabek’s chest. “You’re going to text me the minute you get off that plane, and call me as soon as you get home. Understand?”

“I’ll do the best I can,” he promised.

And then, there was just time for one last squeeze before letting go. Otabek grabbed his suitcase, said his last goodbyes to grandfather and grandson both, and then headed through to airport security at last, and then to his gate.

The flight was only a few hours; he’d waited in lines on either end for almost as long as he was on the plane itself. He texted once he was safely on the transit that would take him back to Almaty proper, and called once he was home.

Seeing Yuri’s face as the video chat started up was just as good as always, but now it was extra bittersweet, knowing that mere hours ago, he’d been right there, able to touch and feel and _be_ in the same space.

It was a luxury he never thought he’d miss that much.

But as his heart throbbed, that Yuri-shaped shard feeling the absence of its true owner more than ever, Otabek knew that it really was not enough.

* * *

“You know,” Yuri said a few nights later, as they did their nightly video chat, “there is something we could take from Victor and Yuuri.”

“What?” Otabek wondered, raising his eyebrows as he met Yuri’s eyes through the screen (still those of a soldier, but softer in that moment).

“You could move here, train with me,” Yuri replied. “I mean, I don’t want to be your coach, and I doubt you’d want to be mine, but it fucking sucks being this far apart, and that way we wouldn’t have to be. Just like them.”

Ever the pragmatist, Otabek shook his head. “I appreciate the thought,” he said,” but my form of skating wouldn’t work well with Yakov’s line of coaching, or anyone else’s in that skate club. I learned that when I was thirteen.”

“So I could move there, then,” Yuri tried. “I mean, I could learn new techniques with a new coach; I’ve been with that bastard my entire career so far, since I started training seriously. I’m probably due for a change-up too, right?”

Otabek paused, and took a deep breath as he considered his words. “If you did want to change coaches, I wouldn’t fault you for that. Change can be a good thing, and I’ve trained under too many coaches to throw stones. But I needed to find one that worked for me, like Yakov seems to work for you. We are very different in what we need in a coach, if we want to do our best on the ice. I think you’d be as miserable under my coach as I was at that camp, because the lack of ballet focus would stifle a large part of your artistic passion, just like how too much ballet focus stifled mine.”

Yuri sighed. “I hate that you have to be right.”

Otabek offered a small, apologetic smile. To be honest, he hated it too.

* * *

Yuri came in second in the European Championships.

The faces that he made, standing next to Victor Nikiforov on the podium, were already creating thousands of memes across the internet.

Otabek sent dutiful congratulations anyway, closing the Yuri’s angels tab on his browser, and began stretching for another round of rink time.

* * *

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” the text said. It was the last thing that Yuri had sent, and that was nearly six hours earlier.

Otabek didn’t know quite what to make of it. Which really wasn’t a good thing, heading into the short program of Four Continents.

This, after all, was his strongest program, and any added stress could put a competitor off their game.

Some stress was good, necessary even. After all, competition would always be stressful, just as it was. He’d seen both Yuris break down as they tried to deal with their emotions. He’d seen JJ topple what should have been a perfect start to his season as the pressure of being the best, of being the king, proved to be too much. He himself had managed to have a couple panic attacks during his first and second years in Juniors, when the press was starting to take some note of him, and when he’d figured out just how little he could compete in the world of ballet.

His then-coach had suggested he start therapy, learn some methods of dealing with the stress, and from there, grow and improve in how he got through the worst of what his brain had to offer. Not only had the experience been beneficial for calming his anxieties; it had also helped solidify his belief that there was more than one way forward, and that, perhaps, he could find success in ways that were more suited to him than the traditional pathway forward. He learned to channel his anxieties into his performance, to trust in himself, and to let his heart, shards and cracks alike, guide him.

So yes, stress had its place on the ice, and he had coping mechanisms, but he generally preferred no more surprises than necessary on competition days.

Yuri, therefore, had horrible timing. It would have been annoying if Yuri had teased him, and said he wasn’t telling, but the radio silence only added to the issues instead.

Otabek did his breathing exercises in his hotel room before heading over to the rink. Yes, this was unwanted and unnecessary, but he could put it aside. He would need to. For the next several hours, he had to belong to the ice. And the ice had to be all that he focussed on. If he managed that, there was a chance that he could win, or at least maintain his place within the top five, depending on how the judges reacted.

If he didn’t manage that, well. He’d still placed high enough in other competitions for this to not ruin his season, but he could certainly hope.

For now, it was time for his designated practice run on the ice, along with several others of the Men’s Singles heat.

Katsuki Yuuri was already there when he arrived, practicing his compulsory figures on the ice with ease. Otabek sometimes joined him in it; it was a good way to master the basics, to clear one’s head, and to ensure a clean skate. Yuuri’s were some of the cleanest he’d ever seen. (Yuri Plisetsky had learned them as well; Otabek had done them with him once upon a time, at that skating camp. But the boy had no patience for them, preferring to practice the more showy techniques, or lately, work on increasing his stamina. But again, to each their own.)

Of course, wherever Yuuri was this year, there too was Victor Nikiforov. The man was sitting on a bench at the side of the rink, whining at Yuuri to begin practicing his routine already. (“We have limited time, and I really want to explore Gangneung before the Olympics, don’t you?”)

But it was the person sitting beside Victor that caught Otabek’s attention. 

Checking in briefly with his coach, and leaving his skates at her side, Otabek sprinted over, and was met halfway by a very excited-looking Yuri Plisetsky.

“I told you you’d be surprised,” he exclaimed, hugging Otabek tightly.

He hadn’t, actually, he’d just said that he _had_ a surprise for Otabek, not that Otabek would actually _be_ surprised, but that distinction seemed immaterial as he hugged Yuri back.

“Victor had to come to coach that piggy on the ice,” Yuri explained, tilting his head towards Katsuki Yuuri with a look of fond disdain. “Since he was coming anyway, I thought I’d come along. I wanna see you obliterate him and make up for Victor stealing my victory last month.”

“Does your coach know you’re here?”

Yuri shrugged, giving a small “tsch” as he did, “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

Otabek let out a small laugh, causing Yuri a bit of alarm, his hold loosening up at the sound, but Otabek just held him all the closer for it.

It was good to be in Yuri’s presence again. It was good for this moment, no matter how short-lived it would be. A few days wasn’t even a full week, after all. But he’d cherish every moment.

And even if he couldn’t guarantee Yuri that victory, with that shard of his heart glowing so brightly in his chest, Otabek felt he was more likely to succeed than ever.


End file.
